


ars amatoria (an excerpt)

by vanroesburg



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Britain, Ancient Rome, But in love, Historical, M/M, anyway theyre stupid, aziraphale thinks crowleys been discorporated at one point but he never was, bad attempts at historical accuracy, crowley and aziraphale bluff to their respective offices, i dont think that counts as death, i have literally never published anything before go easy please, more like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22275586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanroesburg/pseuds/vanroesburg
Summary: “Aziraphale!” Crowley called out, forgetting his previous plan and rushing towards the angel. It quickly grew more difficult as the Britons grew more and more sparse, and the enemy Romans greater. The Romans were obviously more fit for battle than Crowley’s flimsy black “strategist tunic” and pillaged weapons, and Crowley had to expend a frankly ridiculous amount of miracles to get over to the angel. As Crowley called out once more, “Angel!” Aziraphale finally turned around, spotting Crowley with evident surprise, and Crowley watched as a quick expression of worry and concern flit over Aziraphale’s face before Crowley once again miracled away another attacker. Aziraphale’s face quickly morphed to a stern and irritated look.“What are you doing here?! Did you incite this revolt?” Aziraphale shouted, rapidly stalking over to Crowley then lowering his voice a bit. “And get your sword up to meet mine, we can’t just stand around in a battlefield!”
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	ars amatoria (an excerpt)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shae_C](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shae_C/gifts).



> ars amatoria, as mentioned, is ovid's work, and means basically "art of love" 
> 
> the real ars amatoria better written (obviously) and honestly much funnier, but i thought since i couldn't include any quotes from the work in my work here, i thought i'd title it like this

Crowley really, really, hadn’t intended to be in the middle of this battle. No, add another really, because the whole kill-torture-each-other-in-the-name-of-justice wasn’t his thing on two very important fronts: the kill-torture and the justice. Actually, now that Crowley thought about it, that might count as three things, but if the Britons and the Romans thought of kill-torture as a singular issue, why shouldn’t Crowley? Always nice to fit in with the times, right? 

Well, maybe not in this case, thought Crowley as he avoided a large swipe at his torso from a roman blade. He had joined this battle primarily because he sympathized with the Britons’ cause, he’d take any excuse to get the jump on some Romans, and working with rebels was generally an easy way to earn a couple brownie points in his next report to Hell — most of the time they never checked the actual cause behind any given revolt. The whole rebellion thing was obviously Evil, and stabbing, pillaging, and aforementioned kill-torture was just the cherry on top of those brownie points. 

Not that Crowley had really participated personally in any kind of kill-torture. In fact he spent most of the time as a strategist — a particularly lazy one, but it allowed Boudicca to use a male-sounding person’s name to back up any and all of her own strategies and words. Honestly, he was kind of living the best life possible (at least during the middle of a war). He had a secured position, a bed (cot) to sleep on, and a guarantee to the best of the rations that the army had to offer. Frankly, he was only second to Boudicca — the commander — the other commanders, and Boudicca’s family. It was a pretty good deal for war-time, he felt. 

Regardless, Crowley was thinking of quitting after this battle. The takeover of Londinium had gone all well and good. He just waved along Boudicca’s full rush plan, slept for most of the battle, using a fake illness as an excuse, and then let the Britons do their pillaging and kill-torture. But there wasn’t any faked illness to rely on this time — one of the medici had declared him healed, and Hell had wanted a more in depth report of the battlefield. So, here Crowley was, surrounded by plenty of gory goodness in Hell’s Bad name, carefully avoiding being discorporated the best ways he knew possible — dodging swiftly with the aid of some (many) minor miracles. If Hell cared so much about an “in depth” report, they could excuse his abuse of miracles. At least they were being put to more important usage than the repeated wine refills he often indulged in. 

As a scarily close brush of blade temporarily paused Crowley’s muttered cursing, he carefully scanned his surroundings. The Britons — and therefore Crowley — were losing. Rapidly. He could see why, as just as he predicted[1], the narrow field the Romans had forced the Britons into battle in had quickly become a sort of death trap, outmatched the Romans’ more polished and advanced javelins, shields, and swords. The Britons were falling in fast and brutal waves. After Boudicca’s pre-battle speech called on “heaven as a righteous side of vengeance,” (he didn’t think he was going to mention that bit to Hell) Crowley had been searching for a chance to get out of the revolt, and this near-massacre might be just the excuse he needed. 

As Crowley tried to pull away towards the larger throng of Britons, he spotted a familiar looking figure bearing the characteristic Roman armor and weapons, and an even more familiar aura of energy. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley called out, forgetting his previous plan and rushing towards the angel. It quickly grew more difficult as the Britons grew more and more sparse, and the enemy Romans greater. The Romans were obviously more fit for battle than Crowley’s flimsy black “strategist tunic” and pillaged weapons, and Crowley had to expend a frankly ridiculous amount of miracles to get over to the angel. As Crowley called out once more, “Angel!” Aziraphale finally turned around, spotting Crowley with evident surprise, and Crowley watched as a quick expression of worry and concern flit over Aziraphale’s face before Crowley once again miracled away another attacker. Aziraphale’s face quickly morphed to a stern and irritated look. 

“What are you doing here?! Did you incite this revolt?” Aziraphale shouted, rapidly stalking over to Crowley then lowering his voice a bit. “And get your sword up to meet mine, we can’t just stand around in a battlefield!” 

“Obviously I’m on the rebels’ side, even if I didn’t really start this whole revolt bit personally. I should be asking you what you’re doing here, Angel, do you know just what the Romans have done?” Said Crowley, falling into a familiar play-fighting exercise with Aziraphale. This wasn’t the first time the two had met on a battlefield, after all. Crowley swiped his sword towards Aziraphale’s sword arm, and was quickly batted away as he watched Aziraphale’s brows furrow in a defensive expression. 

“Well, it’s not as if I wanted to be here! Don’t you think I’d much rather be in Athens, or the like, surrounded by scholars and parchment? Obviously I’m here on heaven’s command.” Aziraphale said as he made a slow jab towards chest. Crowley sidestepped before ducking a bit lower to feign a swipe at Aziraphale’s stomach.

“Can’t you just, I don’t know, bless the commanders or something?” Crowley said as Aziraphale dodged. “You don’t really have to be here-- as in, right here, in that shiny looking armor, do you?” Crowley made a soft poke at the edge of Aziraphale’s armor. 

“Once again, do you think I would be here if that were enough? I’ve been Directly Commanded, and I can’t go back so quickly, I’ve just barely arrived for this battle. Why do you think I’m on the front lines?” Aziraphale batted away Crowley’s poke with his shield before ducking to sweep his sword at Crowley’s feet. 

“Directly commanded? I didn’t think they did that anymore. Did you get a missive from Her, or some nonsense?” Crowley rolled his eyes, jumped over Aziraphale’s sweep, and shoved at Aziraphale’s off-balance form. 

“Of course not, Crowley, I just received a letter from Gabriel-“ Aziraphale quickly put a foot out to catch himself before swinging back up to face Crowley. 

“Gabriel, that damn wanker, I should’ve known he’d be into this whole conquering and pillaging thing,” Crowley said as he swung his sword down to meet Aziraphale’s shield. The blow bounced off laughably easy. 

“Let me finish, dear,” Aziraphale said, stepping closer to Crowley, wrapped his shield arm around Crowley’s waist, then tripped him into a slow fall onto the ground. “Now listen, the letter did say specifically to come to the battlefield itself, so a simple blessing simply wouldn’t have done, you see?” Aziraphale took Crowley’s startled silence as acquiescence, dropping his sword to the side and flipping up his helmet to smile apologetically at Crowley. “I am sorry for this move, but I think it much easier to talk like this, don’t you?”

“Ah… yeah,” Crowley mumbled, taking in Aziraphale’s rosy cheeks and glowing face from the mild exertion and the warm and solid weight on top of him -- clunky armor aside. 

“Wonderful, this way we simply have to roll around every once in a while in order to continue conversation!” Aziraphale smiled, obviously pleased with his own solution. 

Crowley gave himself a mental shake. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to just help me out of the battlefield?” 

“Haven’t you been listening at all? I can’t leave the battlefield before I get the commander-in-charge to trust me. You might know of him, Suetonius?” Crowley watched Aziraphale’s mouth form the words, drinking in each inch of the angel’s face. 

“Suetonius… right, one of those Gaius’, yeah?” Crowley said, vaguely recalling the stern commander’s face. 

“Right you are!” Aziraphale lit up in a bright smile, sending Crowley’s thoughts into jumbled static. “I think it about time to flip over now, don’t you?” Without any response, Aziraphale quickly lifted himself just enough to flip Crowley over, placing his knees on either side of Crowley’s hips and gently pulling his arms beside him, pinned, before leaning down to speak into Crowley’s ear.

Crowley focused hard to avoid any shuddering, caught up in the overwhelming feeling of Aziraphale kneeling over him and pinning him down. It was completely unsuccessful as Crowley lost any and all focus, caught up in the comforting press against his thighs, the enveloping heat against his back, the whisper of Aziraphale’s breath over Crowley’s ear, the intentionally gentle force twisting his arm behind him, and above all, simply the presence of Aziraphale was- 

“This is a war,” a nearby Roman soldier called out to the pair. He was gesturing to the position between Aziraphale and Crowley, eyeing most prominently how the angel’s hips rested against the demon. Both the demon and the angel startled, they sprung apart — Aziraphale pushing himself quickly into a standing position and Crowley himself scrambling out from his held position. 

“Well that was, quite brusque of him to imply something like… that,” Said Aziraphale, as he adjusted his shield on his arm. He picked at his armor before catching sight of the previously discarded blade and sheepishly snatching it back off the ground. He avoiding looking at Crowley, blush just shy of being able to be excused as physical exertion. 

“Bright idea that was, wrestling,” sneered Crowley, matching Aziraphale in both his aversion of eyes and prominent color in his cheeks. He straightened out his altered tunic, turning away slightly as if to give some parting words, “How about we get this ‘war’ out of the way-“ before catching a glance of a Briton that had somehow set his eyes on Aziraphale. 

Fuck no, Crowley thought, rushing towards the angel and frantically shoving him out of the way despite Aziraphale’s startled and slightly offended shout, tackling the other Briton to the ground, hard. He heard Aziraphale say, “Crowley, you can’t just-“ and just caught a glimpse of the angel turning to face the mess of limbs that was Crowley and the Briton before the demon received a heavy blow to the side of his torso.

Crowley crumpled to the side with several loud cracks and a short cry, curling into a ball on the ground. The demon very weakly raised his hand. Snap. The Briton and several surrounding soldiers vanished. 

Crowley’s thoughts were quite a jumbled mess right before losing consciousness -- one, he should reassure Aziraphale quickly that he was fine, two, it was kind of ironic that he was the one taking the blow for his angel and three, considering that he didn’t really need to breathe, it was both startling and highly inconvenient to be robbed of such a habit at this point of time[2].

Snap.

—————————————————————————————————————

Crowley awoke groggily in what, his best guess was, some sort of medical area. Strewn bandages, check. Forceps, check. Scalpels, check. Cheap alcohol, check. Yeah, he was pretty sure he was at least in an approximation of medici territory, probably a valetudinaria, or something.

Crowley attempted to sit up, wincing as a brutal stab of pain appeared in the side of his ribs. Deciding to move slower, he gradually shifted himself — feet to hips, hips up and over feet, use the arms to move the torso up… and success! Fully standing on two legs and only a couple intense stabs! From what Crowley could tell, the damage wasn’t nearly as bad as what he remembered from those few seconds of getting hit — any injury that instantly knocked him out had to have been fixed up or healed somehow, otherwise he’d have been discorporated for sure. 

Nasty fucking weapons those humans are getting around to, Crowley thought before snapping the largest jug into some better quality stuff. He took a quick swig before something in his previous thoughts made him quickly backtrack. 

Healed? That means Aziraphale must’ve— Aziraphale! Where was the angel? Crowley walked gradually out of the room, a hand braced against his side, observing that he was nowhere near the battlefield from before. In fact, Crowley realized as he looked down at himself, he wasn’t even dressed in his modified tunic from before -- instead wearing a shoddy knee-length beige tunic, standard soldier order. What a horrible taste in clothing these Romans had. Crowley’s room was not the only one of its kind, countless other rooms surrounded his own — the demon assumed they were for the majority of the injured soldiers, though the slaves seemed to be in a more separated, general area compared to the room Crowley was in. Was it expecting too much to think Aziraphale had placed Crowley in a higher importance area? How much time had passed? And where was the angel, for someone’s sake?!

After leaving his area, Crowley quickly limped over to the several Romans working or milling about — probably medici, possibly just other workers or soldiers. He limped towards the closest medice, a young woman with her hair pulled back and a stern look on her face. 

“Er, uh, Medice…?” Crowley murmured out, considering using a miracle to gather information (but quickly reconsidering with a throb of pain from his side,) just as the young woman turned around. Yet as soon as she had turned, the soldier she had been working on cried out, and the medicus switched her attention back to the patient instead.

“Yes, what is it? If you need assistance I would prefer you simply wait your turn, I, or one of the others, will get to you as soon as possible.” She said, not looking at Crowley. 

“No, that’s-- er. Not what I was asking! I’m looking for someone.” As Crowley with clipped sentences, the woman tightened the bandage on the patient beneath her and quickly tore the end of the bandage, standing up to face Crowley with the roll of bandages still in hand. 

“Looking for someone, huh? Well I bet after that shitfest, they’re probably dead, but if they’re more than a common soldier or one of the doctors here has treated them, I might know them. Do you have a name?” She said. 

“Aziraphale. Or maybe-- just Fell, or, A.Z. Fell. Something like that. He’s probably. Well. Probably important. I think?” Crowley was about 80% sure he was losing his all his mental faculties at a rapid rate, he just wasn’t quite sure of the cause: was it because he was heavily injured? Or was it because he might have most certainly deprived Aziraphale of his power to the point that his angel was now “probably dead”? Crowley wasn’t sure he could think about this for much longer. 

“None of those names ring a bell, so neither I nor any of the others around here have seen the man.” At the look on Crowley’s face, the young woman took a small step back and seemed to change her tone a bit. “It isn’t certain he’s dead, alright? Like I said, it might just be that I haven’t seen him. There were a lot of people at that last battle, yeah?” 

“Great. Good help. Bye now.” Fuck, he must be really losing it. Alright. Last mission before said losing it: locate Aziraphale, focus focus focus. Find the energy, something like that. Angel can’t die. Er. Angels can’t die, right, not from human battles. Crowley took a(n unnecessary) deep breath, keeping that fact in his head: Angels won’t die from human battles. Worst is that he might have discorporated, or something. His energy would still be around, right? Right. Focus! 

Crowley kicked everything from his mind as best he could and did what he knew best: imagined. He imagined the pain wasn’t real, that he was perfectly fine, that Aziraphale was perfectly safe, and that he could easily find something of the angel’s celestial energy if he focused. After all, it would only make sense that a demon would have some sort of sense for heavenly energy, right? It made perfect sense, so obviously there’s no other way it could be. 

And it came to be just as Crowley imagined, if only for a second. He couldn’t feel the pain, he felt safe, and above all, he felt Aziraphale. However, Crowley couldn’t pinpoint where he would find the Angel, because at that very moment, he was jolted out of this state by someone grabbing his shoulder, hard. Crowley spun around to growl at the offender, only to be faced with--

“Hastur! Hell of a way to meet, as always.”

——————————————————————————————————————————

Heaven was, well, demanding wasn’t a very kind word to use, but it was the closest approximation of Aziraphale’s current opinion and attitude towards the very strongly worded missive he had recently received, signed by Archangel Gabriel himself. It detailed a criticism of Aziraphale’s recent miracle use, and quite a demanding new mission that Aziraphale was required to attend. Personally attend, it read. So really, it was very much all Heaven’s demanding fault that Aziraphale found himself in the midst of a battle, surrounded by these horrid and disgusting Romans, not to even mention the endless gore, killing, and really Aziraphale greatly missed some of the more Grecian intellectual battles. Not to say that the Romans didn’t have their own war tactics, just that--

“Angel!” Crowley called from a fair distance away. 

“Crowley! What are you doing here!” Aziraphale should’ve known Crowley would be here. No wonder Heaven was so insistent! This damned revolution was all Crowley’s fault, wasn’t it! He spun around quickly to face Crowley, determined to get an answer. “Get your sword up to meet mine!” 

“I didn’t start the whole revolt bit personally.” As Crowley spoke, Aziraphale took some time to look him over. The demon certainly didn’t look dressed for war — what with his shabby tunic and stolen weapons, left over from taking the previous towns, no doubt. Had Crowley really been on the battlefield all this time? Perhaps Aziraphale had been a bit quick to judge. 

“I should be asking you what you’re doing here, Angel, do you know just what the Romans have done?” Said Crowley, and Aziraphale quickly answered through the flush that spread across his face. Of course he knew what the Romans were up to, but it wasn’t exactly a choice to be here! 

“Obviously I’m here on Heaven’s command.” The Romans, frankly, were horrible. Despite the fact that the Britons were no saints of their own, what with the killing and the torture and all that, the Romans seemed to dabble a bit in each of those things, plus some extra debauchery and general nastiness. All in all, Aziraphale would prefer very much not to be on the Romans’ side, but an order was an order. 

“Can’t you just, I don’t know, bless the commanders or something?” Crowley said, and as Aziraphale dodged Crowley’s slow swipe with his blade, he considered this very shortly. But, well, Gabriel had said ‘personally’ and so, personal he would have to be. 

“I’ve been Directly Commanded.” Aziraphale said, trying to keep the word personally in the forefront of his mind, even as the stench of blood continued to flood his senses. “Why do you think I’m on the front lines?” Aziraphale easily knocked away another of Crowley’s pokes with his shield. He knew they were play fighting, but they should probably put a tad more effort into it. 

“I didn’t think they did that anymore. Did you get a missive from Her?” Aziraphale purposefully wobbled off balance, but even as Crowley was speaking, he hardly pretended to shove Aziraphale at all. Aziraphale quickly glanced around as he purposefully tripped, and really, they were catching quite a few glances for being so conspicuous without even seeming to be exerting themselves -- no sweat, no nothing.

“Of course not, Crowley, I just received a letter from Gabriel-=“ Aziraphale easily caught himself and yes, there were several other Romans starting to approach Crowley and himself. It certainly didn’t help that the demon’s lovely red hair was so eye-catching… 

“Gabriel, that damn wanker, I should’ve known he’d be into this whole conquering and pillaging thing,” Crowley said with another weak swing, and after Aziraphale swept the blow aside, he figured it was time to racket the play-fighting up just a few notches. 

“Let me finish, dear,” Said Aziraphale as he quickly stepped into the demon’s space, dropping his sword to the side as he wrapped Crowley in his arms and tripped the demon into a controlled fall to the ground. As they hit the ground, Aziraphale continued the discussion about the letter he had received, and the ‘personal attendance’ required for the mission, but strangely didn’t get a strong response from the demon. Aziraphale was a tad glad for Crowley’s sudden distaste for their bickering, as it allowed Aziraphale to take in all the sensations that involved wrapping the demon in his arms and pinning him to the ground. Well, it was very pleasant to Aziraphale… Crowley hardly had any sort of grasp on his weapon anymore, and therefore Aziraphale could fully enjoy being close to Crowley for the first time in a long while. 

Even when the two of them met up, there was hardly any of this physical contact, as it wouldn’t do under any regular pretense for an angel to accept such close physical touch from a demon, no matter how nice. As Aziraphale flipped his helmet up, still without a response from Crowley, a thought came to him: maybe Crowley didn’t enjoy this nearly as much as Aziraphale did, and was silent due to disgust? Oh dear. 

“I am sorry for this move, but I think it much easier to talk like this, don’t you?” Aziraphale said, a sheepish smile on his face. Oh he hoped Crowley would allow this, if not for Aziraphale, at least for this more practical excuse. Crowley had only just mumbled his assent before Aziraphale lit up with joy. He knew the demon, and Crowley would never shy away from telling him if something made him uncomfortable, so he must not hate this position as much as Aziraphale thought. “This way we simply have to roll around every once in a while to continue conversation!” Aziraphale said, quickly moving his mind away from any other kinds of rolling on the ground. Crowley was bearing with it now, and Aziraphale should not take advantage! Not in the least. 

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to just help me out of the battlefield?”

“Haven’t you been listening at all?” A Direct Command, Aziraphale had said. Well, if the demon didn’t get it the first time, he would get it now. They had extended their time to talk, after all. “I can’t leave the battlefield before I get the commander-in-charge to trust me. You might know of him, Suetonius?” Continued Aziraphale. 

“Suetonius… right, one of those Gaius’, yeah?” Crowley said.

“Right you are!” Oh his demon was just so clever, and had such a way with names and faces. Aziraphale would love to have the kind of way with people that Crowley did. It was most likely a demon thing, Aziraphale thought, though there was certainly a fair amount of Crowley’s own charm in there. Crowley always said how easy it was to convince Hell of his reports, so the demon must be a fair bit more intelligent than perhaps those reviewing his reports down below. Regardless. 

“I think it about time to flip over now, don’t you?” Aziraphale said, lifting himself just enough to flip Crowley over onto his stomach, and settled easily against the demon’s hips, Aziraphale’s thighs on either side. It was such a good position they found themselves in. Aziraphale could feel much more of Crowley than usual, and, well, he figured it still functioned as a sort of wrestling pose, Good pinning down Evil and all. He could feel a surprising warmth coming from the snake demon, and Crowley was surprisingly scrawny as well. It had been simple to flip such a light body, and without the demon being dressed in armor, it was even easier to feel the thinness of Crowley’s hips and limbs. The angel leant down against Crowley’s lightly-muscled back, dragging the demon’s arms next to his head and pinning them there by the wrists before saying something into Crowley’s ear.

The angel had hardly finished his sentence before a nearby soldier crudely called out, “This is a war,” to the pair on the ground. Aziraphale snapped his head up as the soldier eyed the two’s position, causing both the angel and the demon to quickly spring apart. 

“Well that was, quite brusque of him to imply something like… that,” Said Aziraphale, trying very hard to not look at Crowley. He hardly wanted to see the demon’s obvious disgust at Aziraphale’s obviously less-than-holy motives being pointed out so bluntly, after all. 

Crowley’s sneered comment of “Bright idea that was, wrestling,” simply confirmed Aziraphale’s fears. Had the angel looked, he would have been quickly distracted from his woes by Crowley’s prominent blush. Instead, the angel quickly picked up his sword, adjusting both of his weapons, and slowly gathered the courage to look back up at the demon as he heard Crowley’s continued words of, “How about we get this ‘war’ out of the way--“ 

Before he realized it, Aziraphale was being shoved aside by the aforementioned demon. The less than graceful squawk the angel let out at being pushed didn’t help his sudden defensiveness, as Aziraphale made a small protest of “Crowley, you can’t just--“ as he spun around to face the demon before seeing that Crowley had tackled a nearby enemy soldier — a Briton, in Aziraphale’s case — to the ground. Before the angel could properly reach towards the mass of limbs the two had become, he watched in horror as Crowley took a devastating blow to his ribs. 

Aziraphale stumbled forward, hardly able to move from the shock as he registered Crowley’s short but urgent cry of pain, before seeing his demon weakly snap the Briton underneath him and the surrounding soldiers away. Brain kicking back into gear, Aziraphale rushed towards Crowley just to see him lose consciousness, and quickly cradling his fainted demon in his arms. Aziraphale quickly picked up the limp body his demon had become and--

Snap. 

Aziraphale had moved the two of them to the closest camp that had a valetudinaria, and quickly made his way to the high priority, high importance area, ignoring the surrounding humans. Making it into a small room, Aziraphale placed his demon down gently onto the prepared area. The angel used a nearby scalpel to cut Crowley’s tunic off, wanting to preserve his energy for whatever miracle he would have to do next. 

As soon as the clothes fell away, the angel let out a near-silent gasp of alarm at the gruesome state of the injury. His demon had obviously been hit by something solid, and metal, and was lucky that only a bit of the skin had broken, as the weapon might have had a few edges, too. A small section of his demon’s ribs had been dented in, obviously heavily fractured, with a large amount of bruising rapidly developing across a large section of Crowley’s torso and hip, all emanating from the section of his injured ribs on his side. Aziraphale, hardly able to stand looking at it, braced his hands very lightly on the central injury, wincing when Crowley seemed to twitch at the stab of pain, and began to flow a large amount of his healing miracle into his demon. 

A short while later, and a lot of energy spent, the angel had finished the primary healing that the demon needed. Having repaired any organs the fractured ribs had punctured and also healing a majority of the fractures themselves, the angel simply needed to finish the leftover cracks in the center of the injury along with the severe bruising that was definitely beginning to show. His poor demon was mottled with the start of some very deep and heavy bruises, quickly developing into darker shades.

However, just as Aziraphale began to move his hands back onto Crowley’s chest, he heard loud footsteps approaching the room. Quickly, he snapped his fingers to dress Crowley in some stereotypical Roman superior officer clothing and hide his demon from human eye for several hours, and not a moment too soon. 

In the doorway stood Gnaeus Julius Agricola, a general of the Roman army, and the very general Aziraphale had coaxed to allow him into the battle that day. 

Aziraphale had no time nor energy to protest as the general dragged the angel out of the valetudinaria, berating him for wasting time, and back into the midst of the battle. Despite Aziraphale’s hatred of bloodshed, the angel followed his mission and aided the Romans in cutting down every last Briton that had arrived at the battlefield that morning. He hoped this was what She had planned, and if not, at least what Gabriel had wanted.   
——————————————————————————————————————————

Aziraphale had attempted multiple times during the battle to sneak off, but his depleted power and Agricola’s watchful eye restricted his movements. Even after the battle, Aziraphale was forced through several long hours full of wrap-up meetings. And well, as soon as Aziraphale made it out of the generals’ area, making his way back to the valetudinaria, he was interrupted once again. He was making his way through the outskirts of the main battle-camp, before being confronted by Gabriel appearing in a small flash of light in front of him. 

“Aziraphale! How has it been going with that mission?” Gabriel said, landing a heavy hand on Aziraphale’s drawn up shoulders. 

“Er, well, Gabriel. Good to see you. The battle just ended, in fact.” 

“Wonderful! You don’t mind coming on up for a quick report do you?” 

Gabriel gave just a moment’s pause, barely enough for Aziraphale to say something along the lines of: “Well, actually, I was just--“ Before Gabriel cut him off. 

“Good to hear. Let’s go, then!” And with those words, Gabriel tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s shoulder and in just the blink of an eye the two of them were in the bright and empty halls of Heaven.

As Gabriel steered Aziraphale over to a pair of windows on the far end of the halls, Aziraphale gazed around at the coldly familiar room, taking in the stern expressions on every angel that sped past, work in hand. Aziraphale sighed quietly, just before Gabriel brought Aziraphale to a halt. After depositing Aziraphale, Gabriel moved to join the two other angels standing in front of the window. 

“Aziraphale, you remember Sandalphon and Michael, don’t you?” Gabriel gestured to the two angels proudly, his standard grin on his face. “Sandalphon has had a big hand in some recent punishments on Earth, you remember, don’t you? I’d say it’s pretty hard to forget! And Michael has always been best with any kind of, well, wars, you know? Anyway, they would love to hear your reports. So let them hear it!” 

“Yes, um, well. This battle was between the Romans and the revolting Britons--“ Aziraphale began, looking anxiously away from Michael’s stern gaze, before Gabriel cut in. 

“Revolting in more than one way, I would say! And we know a thing about settling revolts, don’t we, Aziraphale. Go on.” 

“Yes, of course, I joined the front lines of the battle as requested in your letter, Gabriel, and therefore had a front row seat to the demolishment of the Britons. The Romans massacred every Briton on the field just earlier today, it was swift, due to the Roman weapons being more advanced--“

“That’s exactly what I like to hear! Total defeat for our enemies. Isn’t that great, Michael?” Gabriel nudged Michael’s side, ignoring the look of distaste he received in return from her. “If you keep racking up battles like these, you might really start following in Michael’s footsteps!” 

Gabriel stepped forward, giving Aziraphale another pat on the shoulder, before bringing Aziraphale to a small desk against the window nearby, stacked high with towering papers. “Now you can get back to your work on Earth, as soon as you finish this last bit of paperwork. See, you remember in my letter that I wrote about you using a few too many miracles?” 

Aziraphale nodded, feeling as if he would be interrupted if he attempted to speak again. Rightfully so, as Gabriel plowed on, “It isn’t a huge deal, but you did overwhelm the office a bit with notices, so I thought, ‘hey, Aziraphale should take a look at these notices himself!’ and here we are!” Gabriel gave Aziraphale’s shoulder a half-gentle push and Aziraphale quickly sat down into the prepared chair in front of the desk as Gabriel turned and walked away, calling back “I expect good things!” as his footsteps echoed through the hall. 

Aziraphale looked out through the window at the sprawling city Heaven had on constant display, and sighed. He picked up his pen and the first notice from the top of the stack, and set to work.

——————————————————————————————————————————

With no idea how much time had passed through working on that blasted paperwork, Aziraphale quickly turned them in as soon as he had completed them and took some direct travel back to his previous location. He walked as quickly as he could through the camp, pushing into the valetudinaria with Crowley in the forefront of his mind. Recounting his steps as if it were life or death, Aziraphale tore into the room he had placed Crowley in before only to find the room vacated entirely.

Of course, Aziraphale thought, It’s been days, I shouldn’t have expected most of the injured, let alone a demon, to stick around. I’m sure Crowley is fine. Aziraphale thought all of this as he paced anxiously around the room, his actions an exact opposite to his self-assuring thoughts. 

“I am certain Crowley is fine! He must be. Must be.” Aziraphale murmured as he slowly walked out of the room he had burst into. Catching sight of someone nearby working on a patient, Aziraphale made sure to take several breaths before walking, calmly, towards the young woman working. 

“Excuse me, er, Medice?” Said Aziraphale, hesitating over what title to use. “Would you be able to direct me to someone?”

“You mean find someone?” The young woman said, obviously caught up in her current work. “Yeah, sure, give me a moment.” And just as she had said, after a moment’s pause, the young woman pushed herself into a standing position, turning to face the angel. “So, finding someone, you said?”

Aziraphale lit up, “Yes, my dear girl, finding someone indeed!” 

When it became obvious the angel had no further intention to elaborate, the woman decided to prompt the man herself. “I’d probably need some description, something to go on…?” 

“Oh, yes, of course! Well, he’s the very, erm, wily sort, and carries himself a bit as if--“ 

“No, I mean. Is he important, or, someone I ought to know, or any really remarkable physical characteristics?” 

“Right, yes. He has very bright red hair, and, um, he was injured in the most recent battle. Er. His name’s Crowley?“ Aziraphale described nervously, not sure of how much Crowley had passed himself as a Roman, as the demon had certainly been acting like he fit quite in with the Britons last the angel had seen. Though perhaps a battle wasn’t the best marker for how well someone was fitting in to the culture, Aziraphale thought, before drawing his attention back to the young woman at her next words. 

“Well I have to say. I definitely haven’t seen a person with bright red hair, or named Crowley, and if they were in the most recent battle, well. That was quite a massacre, and near all but the most remarkable were killed in the slaughter.” Said the woman. “Though, how severely was he injured?” 

“Quite badly, I’m afraid. I tried to rush him here for medical help, but I myself was quickly pulled back into battle.” Aziraphale began worrying the skin of his knuckles on his right hand with his fingers, nearly wringing his hands together. “He is dreadfully important, so he must have gotten help all the same, yes?” 

The woman was suddenly quite certain that this mystery redhead was of grave importance, and therefore must have received the extensive medical care the angel alluded to. “Yeah, probably. Here’s the thing, if this guy was really as injured as you say, he might be in one of the heavily injured areas of this valetudinaria, over in the west wing. There’s sometimes important people, and sometimes just the nearly-dying. If he wasn’t killed in that battle, he might be there. Probably look for red hair, that’s a pretty striking feature.”

The last half of the young woman’s words were a blur to Aziraphale as the angel could barely bear hearing that Crowley might be “nearly-dying.” The thought wasn’t allowed, and had it not been for Heaven’s most recent paperwork punishment sitting heavily on his mind, the angel would have miracled himself there instantly. Instead, Aziraphale was forced to use more human modes of transportation — otherwise known as walking.

As Aziraphale approached the west wing, there was a large increase in sounds that one would most easily term as the sounds of the dying. Entering the main room, it was apparent why one would use the term — heavily injured people lay strewn about, on hay, on cots, on any available surface. There must have been tens of of people in the — frankly not very large — room, and none of them were faring well. Several soldiers he could see had either heavily injured limbs or already amputated limbs, there were countless bottles of alcohol around in order to both disinfect and attempt to numb some of the pain, and though there was more than one medici, they were each stationed close to the nearest running water, and there were only a few sources of that. Aziraphale looked desperately around, praying to find something of Crowley, but at the same time dreading finding the demon in such a horrid place. The angel feared the demon might have somehow exacerbated his injuries, or somehow gotten injured again, so this location was as likely as any to find Crowley. 

Aziraphale padded carefully through the room, staying out of the way as best he could manage, with a few miracles thrown in for the people he passed by while searching. After a perimeter circle of the room, Aziraphale wandered out of the main room and peered into several isolated chambers, all without luck. Finally, the angel caught sight of a few uninjured soldiers — assistants of the medici — lifting several bodies on something that resembled a stretcher, a large cloth covering the bodies and most of their faces. 

One of the bodies possessed red hair.

——————————————————————————————————————————

“Crowley. You’re coming to Hell. Now.” Hastur said, not looking pleased. Well, not that he ever looked pleased. 

“Right now? Couldn’t I maybe get a bit of a rain check--“ 

“Lord Beelzebub has called for you. Now.” Hastur grabbed Crowley’s arm — on Crowley’s bad side, just his luck, or maybe Hastur’s luck — and yanked him into the crumbling ground. Crowley barely had time to shut his eyes, from both the sudden pain and from the fact they were literally being buried alive. Maybe buried wasn’t the right term, as it was more Hastur bodily dragging Crowley through the dirt, and as neither of them really needed to breathe, they were just sort of submerging into the ground, like diving underwater. 

The two landed on the floors of hell with a solid sound[3], Crowley barely avoiding falling over through Hastur’s hard grasp on his upper arm. Hell was unpleasant as always, Crowley found, the constant grime on the walls and floors still unscrubbed, and an utterly awful stench permeated throughout the hallways Crowley was dragged through. A familiar deep unease seemed to settle into Crowley’s gut, and the dirt seemed to crawl against him, despite the fact that he wasn’t actually touching the walls. Hastur was relentless, dragging Crowley through seemingly endless twists and turns before finally attempting to toss Crowley onto the ground in a slightly open room[4] that seemed to hold some semblance of a sitting area, with a single table accompanied by a single chair in the center. After Crowley recovered from being flung around with a small stumble, he took a seat at the singled-out chair at Hastur’s fake cough and pointed look. Crowley stared into the other demon’s faces, seeing obviously Hastur, Ligur accompanying, and Lord Beelzebub, all looking pissed as always. 

“Not that it isn’t always lovely to visit here, but was there a specific reason…?” Crowley said, taking in the increasingly obvious interrogation room with a faux-casual attitude. 

“It would do you well to stay szzilent, Crowley. Where is the report you promiszed uz?” Beelzebub glared down at Crowley, their chair being on a more elevated platform.

“See that’s just the thing, Lord Beelzebub, I was just about to write the report when I was, er, invited here. Due to a few extenuating circumstances-“ 

“What iz that smell?” Beelzebub interrupted, “It smells like…”

“Angel,” Beelzebub, Hastur, and Ligur all hissed out. Quickly, Hastur advanced towards Crowley and grabbed Crowley by the collar, knocking the chair to the side and hoisting Crowley off the ground several inches. Crowley gave a short hiss as his side spiked in pain once more, a wretched grimace planting itself on the injured demon’s face.

“You flash bastard, I knew you were up to-- up to-- to good,” Growled Hastur, dragging Crowley past the table and this time succeeding in pushing Crowley to the ground. Hastur held him there as Beelzebub rose from their chair and circled the restrained Crowley. Crowley scraped his teeth together harshly, gritting them against the waves of pain twisting through his body at the harsh position Hastur had forced him into. 

“I think, good, is a little,” Gritted out Crowley, struggling to speak through both the pain and the fact that his mouth was nearly being crushed through the floor, much less against the floor, “harsh, of a term, to use.”

“Then juszt what would be your explanation for that celeszztial energy,” Beelzebub circled Hastur and Crowley, pointedly stepping on the prostrated demon’s hair. “Well, Crowley?” As Crowley bat at the floor desperately with his free hand, Beelzebub made a small gesture towards Hastur and Crowley could feel the pressure lessen just slightly, enough that he could turn his head to speak more regularly. 

“Lord Beelzebub, both my late report and these ‘celestial energies’ have the same cause: I met the Enemy during the battle a few days ago.” Crowley quickly spat, eager to explain his way out of this predicament. Intrigued, Beelzebub gave further orders to allow Crowley to stand back up, despite Hastur’s obvious disappointment. Crowley straightened up and made his way back to his seat, ignoring his aggravated wound in favor of keeping his casual facade.

“As you all know, the Enemy, also known as the Principality Aziraphale, has missives from Heaven just as I have from those such as Your Disgrace,” Crowley said with a halfhearted bow towards Beelzebub, before sitting down harder than he had intended on the chair, nearly collapsing into it. “I met the Angel during the final battle between the Britons and the Romans in the rebellion that you have such commanded I see to. As your last request was I personally be present in the next battle, I dutifully made my way to the front lines, and was then faced with the Angel, obviously on the side of the Romans. We fell into a fierce battle, which at one point involved resorting to using simply our bare hands, so to speak, as we had destroyed each others’ weapons.” Crowley paused, briefly remembering Aziraphale pressed against him, but schooled his expression into a scowl quickly. “Just as I was about to defeat him, that wretched Angel grasped another weapon and dealt me quite the heavy blow. However, the Angel obviously had taken too much damage to finish me off, as though I was knocked unconscious, Hastur was able to find me as soon as I awoke.” 

Hastur continued to glare at Crowley doubtfully, but Ligur was impassive, and Beelzebub seemed vaguely impressed, though still madly irritated. “You said this explainsz your lack of report az well?” They said, peering at Crowley’s increasingly pale face. 

“Yes, Your Disgrace, because I was unconscious for quite the length of time, I wasn’t able to write a report. However, I can summarize it quite quickly. The Britons conquered several towns, with accompanying kill-torture, as mentioned in my previous report, and the last battle was a horridly bloody affair for both sides. Despite the Britons’ loss, I believe that Hell has succeeded, not only through the depravity of the Romans during the battle, but also due to the fact that the leader of the Britons evoked God’s name before the battle in the name of righteousness, only to lose spectacularly.” Crowley paused, out of breath from trying to rush through an attempt at a flattering report. “If you would like a more in depth description, I can write another report as soon as I return to--“

“There’z no need, Crowley, that iz enough.” Beelzebub said, accepting Crowley’s shoddy report, even if it was apparent that they simply wanted this meeting over with, as quickly proven by their next words: “I want this meeting done with, you have waszted enough time. Hastur.” 

Hastur grumbled quietly before wrenching Crowley out of the chair by the arm, even harsher than before, and began dragging Crowley back through the endless underground tunnels throughout Hell. Just as Crowley was truly beginning to give out to the pain, Hastur stomped the ground and the two of them shot through Hell’s ceiling and emerged quickly on an empty road back on earth. 

“Could you not have perhaps… done that…. a little sooner, Hastur?” Crowley groaned out, all too aware of his failing mind and body. Hastur grinned. 

“Then I wouldn’t get to see you through as much pain as possible. I hope to see you soon discorporated, Crowley.” Hastur said. Then he dropped Crowley bodily onto the road, gave a small, sarcastic, princess wave (though Hastur would call it a villain’s wave), and quickly vanished once more underground. 

Crowley groaned once more, dedicated all of his remaining demonic power to self healing, and promptly passed out. 

——————————————————————————————————————————

The first thought that came to Aziraphale’s head was, ‘I’m certain I’ll see Crowley as soon as he gets a new body, I just need to be in places Crowley will look for me at,’ shortly followed by, ‘I think I might be hungry.” And so, Aziraphale, despite a strangely hollow feeling in his stomach, wandered back to town and sat himself in the first building he strongly recognized. It took him several moments to realize the first building he had recognized was not a restaurant, but instead a …… Mildly confused, Aziraphale slowly rose to his feet and walked back out the entrance, his feet moving him farther down the street and hesitantly into a new building, this time indeed one of the pubs the angel frequented recently, as shown by the warm welcome he received from the bartender. 

“Fell! It’s good to see you again! What should I get you?” The older woman said, turning to grab a jug of wine and setting it down in front of Aziraphale, waiting for an answer. “Other than the wine, of course.” 

Aziraphale didn’t answer, absentmindedly picking up the jug only to set it back down, only slightly removed from the previous position. “Yes,” The angel mumbled as he looked back up at the bartender. The woman looked very confused. 

“Fell? Do you want, er, a reminder of what we have?” She said.

“Yes, right, I believe a reminder would serve some good.”

“Well, we’ve got the standard wheat bread with moretum and nuts, and some of those dried dates that you love, and then a mushroom or truffle salad, along with of course some blood puddings with some goat’s cheese, some classic pultes Iulianae, and of course our signature sweet bread with honey.” After several seconds without response, the woman continued with a small smile, “And I’m only telling you this because it’s you, Fell, but I’ve got some Londinium honey stashed away before those Britons wrecked the town, and I’ll give you some, but only if you promise to cheer up!”

“Yes, I. Well, I must accept, at least the honey, then, if only to thank your generosity. And I’ll also be having the, um, pultes? No, the truffle salad.” A pause. “No, that isn’t it. I’ll have the dried dates, and the blood pudding. Yes, that’s it, I think.” Aziraphale finally said, stumbling his way through the various choices. 

“I’ll get that right out for you, Fell. You sure you don’t want the bread as well? You usually order that, don’t you?” The woman questioned, lifting one brow above the other. 

“Right, yes, of course. Don’t forget the extra garum with the blood pudding, as well, if you please.” Aziraphale said, seeming to come a little more to grips with himself with the order having been done with. 

The woman leaned over and patted Aziraphale gently on the shoulder, saying reassuringly, “I’ll get you some extra berries to go with those dates, why don’t I? It might help.” 

The angel smiled, exhausted, and gratefully agreed, settling back into the chair with a long sigh. What is wrong with me, Aziraphale thought to himself. I suppose it has been a grueling few days. No matter, all will return to normal with Heaven off my back. I’ll just have a meal, go back to my shop, and soon enough Crowley-- A flash of red hair flew through Aziraphale’s mind, matted with blood. Crowley will be back soon.

Having decided that those thoughts were sorted, the angel turned to the meal that the barkeep had placed in front of him. Despite his uncharacteristic uncertainty when ordering, the fruits, bread, meat, cheese, and honey looked as good as ever. Pushing through the hollowness in his stomach, Aziraphale found he easily finished the food in front of him, and in fact finished off the seconds he soon ordered just as quickly. However, despite the fact that the angel was still not full, not even just in the human way, he decided he ought to head back to the book and parchment shop, simply from the look on the kind barkeep’s concerned face. Though there was nothing saying he couldn’t grab a few snacks from the food stalls on the roads back to the bookshop. Aziraphale quickly paid left the proper amount of money, plus a generous tip, made his way briskly back to the book and parchment shop. 

The angel tossed the idea of more food aside on the way back to the bookshop, as he felt a rapidly growing weight on his shoulders, despite the somewhat-fulfilling meal and the many hours he had spent sitting in Heaven. Aziraphale reasoned it was the exhaustion catching up with him, and was all too glad to make it through the small doors of his antiquated book and parchment shop[5]. Immediately, the angel made his way to his bedroom, exhausted and, while certain he wouldn’t sleep, found the idea of opening his shop up after the past week was absolutely abhorrent. Aziraphale all but collapsed onto the bed, only missing the copious amount of papers and codexes stacked on the bed simply through not believing he would land on them. 

He decided to settle in to bed and spend a solid chunk of time reading the literature stacked all around his form — starting with Virgil’s Aeneid, or, no, maybe one of Virgil’s other poems, or, no, not Virgil at all, maybe some Ovid, Metamorphoses, maybe? No, still that wouldn’t do, it should be Ovid’s love poems. Or, no, the angel very much didn’t feel in the mood for any of their stories, maybe something more historical, like some Corbulo, or maybe even just some commentary, as Aziraphale had yet to read Pedianus’ commentary on Cicero’s Orations. 

Goodness, what was wrong with him?! Generally he never had this much issue in choosing to read things. He ought to simply read his way through all of them! The angel, frustrated, reached to his side and grabbed the first codex he placed his hand on, dragging the codex over and reciting the title aloud.

“A collection of Ovid’s Ars Amatoria. Fine! I was thinking of them anyhow, and this is a good starting text as any.” Aziraphale huffed, and began to read. After several long moments, the angel seemed to space out, before shaking his head and attempting to focus once more on the text. He quickly spaced out again, before shaking his head once more and attempting to focus. This repeated several more times before the angel gave a loud sigh. Stubbornly, Aziraphale flipped pages back and forth, fetched a candle to light the page, and even miracled up some reading glasses, all to no avail. Giving up on Ars Amatoria, the angel grabbed another codex, then another, then a parchment scroll, pausing, before sighing and reaching for another codex. This continued until Aziraphale had flipped through or opened every available piece of literature within his bedroom, and moved frantically to his shop, opening book after book, codex after codex, unrolling parchment after parchment. Nothing. No matter the text, Aziraphale could not seem to focus at all. 

Infuriated, the angel returned to the bedroom, disregarding the mess he had left behind, and tucked himself into bed, blowing out the candle. If he couldn’t read, he would finally try this sleeping thing that Crowley-

A flash of red, red, red. 

The sleeping thing Crowley suggested. If the demon enjoyed it, it wouldn’t be too terrible, would it? Determined, the angel shut his eyes and was soon lost in thought enough to slip into unconsciousness. 

——————————————————————————————————————————

The first feeling Crowley registered was the feeling of bark digging into his back. He could see the road leading straight to what seemed to be a fairly large town, and there was a small forest behind the tree he was leaned against. Crowley decided to take a mental check of what had happened to get him to this point. Right. Britons, rebellion, Hell’s assignment, battle, Aziraphale, knocked out, wake up injured, dragged to Hell, interrogation, return, pass out in the centre of the road. Someone had evidently dragged him off the main road he collapsed on, and though he was loathe to admit it, he might want to thank the person that did so — there were some pretty prominent cart marks and the road itself looked full of slightly more jagged stones than the average city road. 

Mental and physical present time sorted, Crowley decided to focus on finding Aziraphale’s energy. He had most likely been passed out for a while, and it would be good to visit the angel, if only just under the pretense of making sure Aziraphale hadn’t reported anything out of sorts to Heaven. He should’ve known, the angel was in his book and parchment shop. No doubt Aziraphale was drinking whatever warm drink he had concocted this time[6] and browsing through his endless collection of codexes and parchment rolls. 

Crowley quickly made a move to get up, and shortly collapsed back to the ground, wincing and slapping a hand to his outer ribs on the right side before wincing once more, this time with an added pained groan — slapping was the absolute wrong way to go about it, not at all how to deal with lingering pain from rib injuries. Regardless, Crowley pushed himself off the tree into a standing position, this time placing a hand on the trunk to steady himself as he nearly slumped back down. Deciding not to waste any more time, Crowley combed his fingers through his hair several times, swapped his Roman soldier’s outfit to a solid black tunic, and quickly snapped his fingers to transport himself in front of the shop. 

Unlike when the angel was usually home, a majority of the usually-lit lamps were left unattended, and the shutters were drawn as if the main occupant of the shop was, in fact, not there at all. Crowley slid carefully across the entryway into the unusually dark bookshop, and at once stumbled over several delicately tossed about codexes all across the floor, only visible due to the demon’s somewhat dark vision abilities. Crowley steadily increased his speed as he noticed more and more of the shop looking like some hellspawn had torn through it (other than himself), nearly certain something terrible had happened to his angel — Aziraphale wouldn’t have allowed this otherwise, right? After Crowley had hastened through the main shop, he ran to the back, searching through the rooms of his angel’s house for that very occupant. As Crowley neared the bedroom, he began to pick up on small, pained, whines and some softer cries. He sped up. 

The demon found the room in similar disarray to the front shop, but this time with his angel in the center of the maelstrom, tossing and turning in a very lavish bed Crowley had only seen a few times before. He made a beeline straight away for his angel, but paused at the end of the bed, hesitating. The angel seemed to struggle constantly, making small whimpering noises like an injured animal, writhing about under the twisted blankets that stuck to his skin. 

The angel repeated the same words, over and over, as if trying to convince someone: “No, no….. don’t go...” 

Now, generally Crowley knew what he would like someone else to do if he were having a nightmare: wake him up. But since he had never talked about his own experience sleeping in such a way, much less heard the angel voice anything but disdain or detached curiosity to the idea of sleeping as a whole, the demon had absolutely no idea on how to proceed. Crowley’s hands hovered carefully above the angel, certain that without permission, or maybe even with permission, he would be turned away sooner or later, his concern made a fruitless expenditure. However, the next murmured sound from Aziraphale promptly made his decision for him. 

“…Crowley, no! Please…” His angel cried out, soft but pained, hardly having the time to finish the words before Crowley decided to gently but solidly shake his angel awake. The demon braced one knee on the bed, grasping both of his angel’s shoulders and only managing to shake them once, twice, thrice, before his angel leapt up into Crowley’s arms without thought. 

“Angel!” Crowley started, attempting to pull back before registering it was the angel’s move to wrap the demon into a deep embrace. Crowley allowed himself to be pulled properly into the hug, starting to count the seconds until it was socially — well, for the two of them — acceptable for him to pull back without offending the angel at both the present and a later date, before realizing the angel was shaking. The angel was beyond frantic, latching desperately onto him and evidently sweating. Still unable to cause his rabbit’s heart that had decided to kick itself into twelfth gear, Crowley gave up on trying to separate himself, instead switching easily to sinking into Aziraphale’s embrace and wrapping his arms to form a comforting cocoon as best he could -- wincing at the pull against his ribs. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale croaked into the demon’s chest, “You’re really here?” Crowley took in the angel’s wilder-than-usual hair, the tight grip on the cloth covering his shoulder blades, the wavering shock in Aziraphale’s voice, and forgot about any pain. 

“Yeah, angel, I’m here.” Crowley tilted his face into the curls just below his chin, closing his eyes. The angel continued to shake softly, beginning a soft but hiccuping cry into the demon’s chest. Crowley moved his hands in slow, soothing, movements against the angel’s back, and -- Crowley wouldn’t really call it waiting, because he thinks he’s probably taking as much comfort out of their closeness as the angel is. After several drawn out minutes, the angel’s breathing began to even out, and his next words were coated with a sleepy drawl. 

“You can’t leave again,” said Aziraphale, “You can’t.” Aziraphale pulled Crowley sideways to lay in the bed with him, and the demon’s previously forgotten pain came right back to stomp on his metaphorical tail as he was tugged directly onto one of the many books on the angel’s bed. Crowley sprung back up again, grasping at his ribs once more. Aziraphale blinked several times, staring up at Crowley from his position on the bedspread, arms still outstretched. Suddenly, the angel sat up, his eyes full of a startled awareness they hadn’t possessed before, and a strong blush came across his face. 

“You’re really here.” Aziraphale stated, as a statement, no question in his voice. 

“Yeah…? I am really here.” Said Crowley, the quick switch in the angel’s behavior distracting from his pain. Aziraphale’s blush grew deeper, the cherry red color spreading to the tips of his ears. 

“I thought-- a moment ago-- well-- in the dream-- er,” The angel stuttered, pausing for a moment to collect himself. “Please, please, forget about what I said. Or did, a moment ago.” 

“So the leaving…?” Crowley set his hands back down on the bed, in the small space between Aziraphale and himself. 

“Totally unreasonable, you must have many, er, demon-y things to do, yes? It was, a joke, you could say. I mean, of course you can’t stay. I, er-- we both know that.” Aziraphale said, pushing the books off the bed quickly and turning to swing a leg over the edge of the bed before pausing for several moments, then raising his hand to snap. Before he could, Crowley grabbed the angel’s hand in his. They stared at each other for several long moments. 

“Of course I can stay, angel.” Crowley said, a small smile spreading across his face. “I just completed my last mission from Hell, after all. I’ve plenty of time to spare.” Aziraphale answered in turn with a tired but affectionate smile, sliding his palm to meet Crowley’s, knitting their fingers together. 

“Why don’t you tell me all about that.” 

——————————————————————————————————————————

[1] Crowley had offhandedly mentioned to Boudicca before this battle that the location would be trouble, and there would be call for greater tactics than a full force rush like before, but quickly acceded with Boudicca’s first threat of bodily harm. No need to become grievously injured before the battle, after all. 

[2] Actually, Crowley had several other thoughts at the time, but they were even less related to the situation as the third thought, things like “that Roman’s shield looked like it’s got a face on it,” or “this might’ve hurt less if it were a sharper weapon.” 

[3] The sound was something between a squelch and a thump, and yet somehow altogether a worse feeling and sound. 

[4] “Open” was simply a metaphor in Hell, as there was no fresh air, or windows, so any open area was generally designated for large scale torture, if anything. In this case, the term “open” just referred to the fact that Crowley felt that way because he was no longer in a thin, dingy hallway. 

[5] Unlike most stores, Aziraphale was not living near a market, nor did he attempt to bring his wares out to present. Despite an extensive collection of parchment rolls, filled and blank, and certainly a fortune’s worth of codexes, the angel kept his shop as inaccessible as possible.

[6] Before the invention of hot cocoa, the angel spent most of history attempting to create his own version of a comforting, hot drink to relax with while reading a book. He could never quite get the sweetness or the flavor right, until Crowley had one day dropped a chocolate truffle into the milk Aziraphale was mixing as the demon came to visit. Obviously the proportions weren’t right at the time, but the chocolate flavor was what was missing, and after that, all Aziraphale had to do was find a way to introduce hot cocoa to the world — and Heaven, citing the comfort as the main Good factor.

**Author's Note:**

> hello y'all, i've never really been able to finish any kind of fic so, if its unpolished and badly written, you know why 
> 
> for shae-c, and also the good omens holiday swap. despite my horrible delay, thank you for waiting, i hope it's close to what you wanted


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